


Lacrimosa

by kallistob



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bargaining, Begging, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Captive!Percival, Caretaking, Choking, Crying, Deception, Desperation, Exhaustion, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fear, Graphic Description, Hallucinations, Healing, Illness, Insanity, Legilimency, M/M, Madness, Magic, Mindfuck, Muteness, Near Death Experiences, Non-Consensual Touching, Objectification, One Shot, Panic, Percival whump, Starvation, Torture, Trauma, Violence, Weak!Percival, neglected Percival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallistob/pseuds/kallistob
Summary: He lets Percival fall. His head hits the stone with a crack, and he doesn't move again. Each breath he takes is rattled with a wheeze, and Gellert curses under his breath.How annoying.He pokes Percival’s cheek, making his head loll this way and that. The man resembles more a puppet with cut strings, left dirty and abandoned in the back of some old antique shop rather than a living, breathing person. And to think that he once held New York City in the palm of his hand.





	Lacrimosa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TycoonTwister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TycoonTwister/gifts).



> ... Of course I'd start the new year with some heavy Graves whump? 
> 
> HEED THE WARNINGS AND THE TAGS. It is not a nice, cute fic. It IS one I'm very proud of, and have been very excited to share though !! 
> 
> I don't think it is dark enough to fall into the "dead dove: do not eat" tag, but let me know if I'm wrong. Or if I forgot a tag. 
> 
> Work edited but unbetaed, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Enjoy <3

 

He loses count of the blows, after a while. He doesn’t know what he did, what someone else did, to make Grindelwald so wrathful. His captor’s voice rises like a tempest around him, thick with German frost. He tosses Percival about like a ragdoll. Bones snap, wounds bleed anew. Percival howls in pain.

-

It is not enough to make him stop, not enough to bury the anger boiling beneath his skin.

Percival’s screaming grates on his nerves. He silences him with a well placed curse that cuts off Percival’s tongue cleanly. The man gurgles and chokes, spitting it back out, rivers of blood flowing down his chin. Lying on his side, holding his right arm close to his chest, he looks up at Grindelwald.

There is fear in his eyes. More than fear - bone deep terror. He thinks he is going to die. He cannot even plea for his life anymore. His body is wracked by tremors, and there is not a single inch of his skin which isn’t covered in deep, purpling bruises. His right eye is swollen shut, his hair clings to his face, toenails are missing from his feet. Vine are wrapped around his ankles, with the sole purpose of eating away Percival’s skin if he so much as thinks about escaping.

Quite useful, these ones.

The man beneath him is disgusting. Grindelwald turns him on his back like he would a beetle, and blood floods Percival’s throat. He idly presses his foot down on Percival’s neck, and the man's body seizes as his eyes roll back in their sockets.

Grindelwald sighs. With a flick of his wand, he cauterizes the wound inside Percival’s mouth, and watches, feet back on either side of Percival’s waist. His prisoner rolls over to cough up blood, desperately trying to breathe. Weak, pathetic, and not even _pretty_ anymore. Grindelwald feels oddly detached from the situation. Even when Percival lifts a shaking hand to weakly hold onto the hem of his own coat, begging for mercy with gestures rather than words, Grindelwald only stares at him as though he was God - deciding whether or not to give Percival a chance at purgatory.

This is a waste of time. Grindelwald disapparates, half aware of the broken sob he hears behind, his mind already preoccupied with matters other than the life of one fallen man.

-

He does not come back until a couple of days. Percival is not fed, but it is nothing he isn’t used to. The frailer he is kept, the better Grindelwald can sleep. As long as he does not die, he can handle torment.

When he appears in front of Percival, it is with the sole intent to curse him into oblivion again. His temper is at its worst; not as bad as his last visit, but flaring all the same. Power sizzles and boils under his skin, demanding an outlet. Percival was kind enough to provide that in the months since his capture. Before him, it used to be some muggles drunkards Gellert found in the dead of night, who no one would mourn. Percival is much the same in that regards: no one cares about him.

He expects to find Graves sleeping in a corner, curled in on himself, exhausted but unable to find the respite of sleep, for fear of Grindelwald’s return. He expects to find him sitting, or standing. He’d been standing before, before Grindelwald used the vines, when he had enough strength to pace inside these four walls and spit and snarl at him with all the fierceness of an untamed creature. He lasted four days before resorting to begging and crying, which was more than Grindelwald could say for any of the people who were unlucky enough to hold his interest. They usually pissed themselves after twenty minutes, and broke in half after two hours.

Percival had been better. But in the end, he was just as human and useless as the rest of them.

Most of the time, when he arrived, Percival was sitting. Legs outstretched in front of him, his back against the wall, and he would raise tired eyes at Grindelwald when he saw him, before hanging his head in defeat. Grindelwald could almost hear his teeth shattering as he braced himself for the pain. He was never ready enough - no one could be. Grindelwald was a creative man, and he applied that skill to everything he did, including torture. Albus had once admired that about him.

Thinking about Albus only worsens his temper. His feet find solid ground, and he materializes inside Percival's room with a blood boiling curse on the tip of his tongue.

He did not expect, upon seeking Percival, that he would find him in the exact same position as when he’d left him at the beginning of the week. Turned on his side, hugging himself and lying in a pool of blood. His face is a ghastly white sheen, his long hair is fanned around him, his eyes are closed.

Is he dead? Grindelwald stills. Is he?

“Oh no, no, no. That won’t do.”

He crouches down, placing two of his fingers over Percival’s pulse point. The man moans weakly, and Grindelwald can feel his heartbeat - extremely faint and slow, but there all the same. Percival is on the brink of death.

Perhaps he’d met Her already. Perhaps they were having a little chat, figuring out whether or not Percival felt ready to die. But - he was not allowed. Gellert had use for him, still.

He leans down and kisses him, using a spell to suffuse Percival with his own healing magic. His skin is so thin Grindelwald can see the light as it travels through his veins. Percival surges upright, coughing up dried clots of blood, choking on them. His pulse flutters beneath Gellert’s fingers.

_“Anapneo.”_

Percival heaves a breath, his chest rising and falling brusquely like that of a resurrected man. It is the first time, Gellert thinks, that he gives life instead of taking it. But Percival is special to him, much more useful than any person he has taken so far. He needs him.

“Wanted to leave me, did you?”

Percival emits a noise akin to that of a wounded animal. At the sound of Gellert’s voice the tremors start again, and Gellert clicks his tongue in annoyance, forgetting for one second that Percival cannot speak.

He grips Percival’s jaw tightly, shaking him, and Percival doesn't stop him. His eyes are glazed over, his skin clammy to the touch.

“My God, you’re burning up,” Grindelwald says.

He lets Percival fall. His head hits the stone with a crack, and he doesn't move again. Each breath he takes is rattled with a wheeze, and Gellert curses under his breath. _How annoying_. He pokes Percival’s cheek, making his head loll this way and that. The man resembles more a puppet with cut strings, left dirty and abandoned in the back of some old antique shop rather than a living, breathing person. To think that he once held New York City in the palm of his hand. Grindelwald is too good at his craft.

He needs to decide. Should he leave Percival to his death, when - _no_. He rejects the thought as soon as it comes to mind with a scowl and a violent shake of his head. He needs Percival to help him with his plans. If nothing else, he needs the man’s body to use as stress relief in order to avoid killing people from his own office in a fit of anger, lest his disguise be discovered. He cannot be found out, not yet. Not when he hasn’t found the child. Not yet. He needs more time. He needs Percival at his side.

He clasps his hands together and the four walls of the makeshift prison crumble to dust. They are in Percival’s bedroom, and Grindelwald levitates the man to place him onto the bed covers, only just realizing the extent of his mistakes. Oozing wounds, broken bones and accumulated filth. It is no wonder he is feverish. It is a wonder he survived so long. Gellert feels heated again, but it is at himself. No matter - he’ll take it out on a useless subordinate.

If Grindelwald knows how to inflict pain, he also knows precisely how to make it disappear. He knows how to vanquish each and every wound on Percival’s body until it is a blank canvas again, he knows exactly how much pain a human being can bear before it is too much. He only lost his temper last time. It wouldn’t happen again.

He vanishes the vines. A sleeve over his mouth to repel the foul odor, he cleans Percival’s wounds with a spell of his own volition. It makes Percival arch off the bed, mouth open on a wail. Crusted blood, pus and dirt are reduced to nothing but swollen tissues around gaping injuries. Slowly, painstakingly, Grindelwald repairs him, mending tissues and forging new skin to mask gruesomeness. By the time he is done, Percival’s body is transformed, topped in chains of angry white scars giving him new depths that Grindelwald maps out with his hands.

He puts Percival under a sleeping spell, insuring a painless process as he breaks, resets and heals each broken bone. Percival twitches and whimpers even asleep, and it makes Grindelwald smile.

By hand, he cleans Percival, scrubbing the sole of his feet with wet flannel, caressing each of his toes to give him new nails. He takes care of the man’s hairiness with a spell reserved for women; it’ll only get in the way of the healing. After the feet come the ankles; then the shins, calves, thighs, his ball and his cock, limp under Grindelwald’s eyes. He touches it idly, a burst of magic at the tip of his fingers to make Graves hard. He nods to himself and cancels the spell. At least that part of his prisoner is still functional.

He massages Graves’ hips, his waist, caresses his stomach. It makes him heave, and Grindelwald tuts in disapproval. He continues up his chest, down his arms. Percival’s hair is a lost cause, so Grindelwald shaves him there too, cutting the long, greasy strands short until there is nothing left. Once that is done, he waves his wand, and bandages slither around Percival’s body, enveloping each of his tender wounds in a tight embrace. They are as good as a healer’s would be. Grindelwald had to mend himself more times than he can count; he could even say, without a doubt, that Graves is in better care with him than he would be in a hospital.

He spells a few healing potions directly inside Percival’s stomach. Percival’s breathing has quieted down, and underneath all the blood and dirt, Grindelwald is reminded once again that he is a pretty man. The thinness of his ankles and wrists is worrying. Grindelwald compares his own hand to Percival’s, and finds he could easily break it again just by gripping him too tightly. He adds nutritive potions to the man’s blood, transfigures a vase into a glass of water and fills it up.

Levitating Percival up once more, he changes the bed sheets before letting his new care down gently. He pulls a light blanket over him, and heightens the room’s temperature. He washes his own hands off of blood in the bathroom, wiping them with a white towel which he then throws in the trash. He changes his own clothes as well.

There is nothing to do but wait. A simple charm will inform him when Percival awakens; he suspects the both of them will not be able to have a talk until Percival is better, which -

 _Oh, right._ They cannot have a talk, at all. Once again Grindelwald curses his own temper, before giving it a pause. He does not need Percival to be able to talk, to use him.

With one last look at his frail captive, Grindelwald diminishes the lights in the room, leaving only a few candles to illuminate it -  almost as if he was at Percival’s deathbed. He smiles.

Once Percival is better, he will use him once more. In the meantime, he has a life to live that is not his own.

-

As predicted, Percival stays unconscious for the better part of an entire week. The only indications Grindelwald has that he is still alive are the slow, steady rise of his chest, and the little pained noises he makes whenever Grindelwald needs to take care of him.

It is boring. Grindelwald mourns the days Percival had some fire left in him, before it sizzled into nothing. This limpless, hollow shell of a man isn't worth his time.

-

Grindelwald is in the room when it happens, thumbing through a stack of papers found in Graves’ office about the Second Salemers. They seem to be an interesting little community of muggles, one he wouldn't mind paying a visit to.

Graves stirs on the bed with a weak moan. Grindelwald looks up at him, and his mouth goes dry. Slowly, he approaches the bed, watching as Percival slowly fights his way back to the land of the living. His eyelashes flutter imperceptibly, his fingers twitch. He whines again, no doubt feeling the pain in his throat. It is fascinating to observe.

Grindelwald summons a chair to him, and sits on it backwards, his arms resting on the top rail as he watches his prisoner. At the last second, he disillusions himself, choosing to make Percival believe he is all alone.

It is cruel of him. He is not a kind man.

Lips curling, he waits to see what Percival will do. He doubts he can accomplish much in his state, other than cry at the hopelessness of his situation. Maybe he will try to get up? Foolish though it may be, Grindelwald expects nothing less of him.

Percival’s blank expression slowly morphs into a painful, twisted frown. His fingers curl, gripping the bed sheet beneath him. He gasps. His mouth is open, and so are his eyes, although he squeezes them shut in the next second - no doubt blinded by the light. He coughs weakly.

Eyes still closed, Percival slowly, ever so slowly tries to sit up.

After a week of lying down and healing, his body must ache terribly; yet Grindelwald smiles at the thought that it is probably the best Percival has felt in months. The pain should be but a dull throb. Tender bruises upon even tender, new skin.

His mouth, however…

As though echoing his thoughts Graves makes a gurgling noise, his hands flying to his neck. So he forgot.

The man starts to shake, wrapping trembling hands around his own neck. He opens his mouth, emitting a distressed “Aaaam” sound that makes Grindelwald raise an eyebrow.  

“Be articulate, would you?” he says, scooting back until he is comfortable in his chair. Percival all but jumps at the sound. Wide, terrified eyes take in the room around him, and fail to find the source of Grindelwald’s voice.

Grindelwald doesn’t speak again, and after a long moment Percival relaxes minutely. His head is hanging low, and his fingers still touch his mouth, as though not quite believing the aching emptiness inside of it, where the weight and familiarity of his tongue should be. It must hurt.

He seems to become aware of something else then. His hair, or lack thereof. Slowly, he raises his hands up to pat his skull, and lets them fall down again heavily. He turns, wincing at the pain in his body. There is a glass of water on the bedside table, the same one Grindelwald filled a week or so ago.

Percival doesn’t seem to think as he takes it. The pain in his throat must be too hard to ignore. He gulps it down in quick swallows. Grindelwald watches the line of his throat with dark eyes, and when Percival is done he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Then he looks down at his body.

Grindelwald removed the bandages, useless as they were. All Percival can see are new scars, everywhere, etched so deep they will never disappear.

For as many years as he still lives, Percival will remember his stay with him.

And then - under Grindelwald’s nose - Percival takes off the blanket in one quick movement and throws his legs on the side of the bed. He is right in front of Grindelwald, but he doesn’t know it.

Gellert watches him. His eyes, _oh_. His _eyes._

Gellert feels a thrill run through him. Percival's eyes are afire again, alive with a fierceness and will to survive he can only admire. He even dares run, although his legs buckle under him in no time. It doesn’t matter.

Grindelwald sees him start to crawl towards the door, little frustrated groans and huffs coming out of his useless mouth. With great effort, Percival manages to raise himself up on his hands and knees.

Grindelwald follows him with his eyes, admiring the curve of his backside.

His prisoner rises up. He moans weakly, clutching his head, and tries to regain some semblance of steadiness. He wobbles, left, right, and then ahead, finding support against the nearest wall.

“Uu - uuh,” he says, and Grindelwald grins.

_Go ahead, little bird. Try to fly._

Percival is breathing shallowly. The sound of it is not agreeable, but it is the evidence of his pain. Grindelwald doesn’t mind it much.

Percival turns his head to the left, finding the door of the bedroom. It is shut, and warded, of course, although Grindelwald truly doubts the latter is necessary. Still - with a prisoner like Percival Graves, one can never be too careful.

Idly, he gets up as well and stretches. His footsteps are charmed to be silent as he crosses the room until he is in front of Percival, and the other man still doesn’t know he’s there. Grindelwald intends to fix that - but not before having watched Percival make a fool of himself.

A clever wave of his hand takes care of the locked door, but he adds a ward just behind it - a shield, preventing anyone from crossing the threshold to the other room.

Still using the wall as leverage, Percival starts making his way to the door slowly. It is quite pitiful to watch, really, in between the coughs, the trembling and the sheer desperation poisoning the air around him.

His hand is on the doorknob. Percival stares at the door, and Grindelwald sees a bead of sweat running down his temple. He resists the urge to lick it off.

His dearest captive takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Slowly, ever so slowly, he starts opening the door, every muscle in his body pulled tight with tension. He is a brave man, there is no doubt. Should he have tried this while Grindelwald was not there, the hexes he’d put on the door would have been enough to make him comatose for another three days, caught in the throes of pain.

But - Grindelwald is here.

So instead of pain, all Percival gets is hope. In that moment he is but a tiny, meaningless bug, flying carelessly, believing itself free, when really Grindelwald has already woven its cobweb all around him, and is just waiting for him to be caught. He'll eat him alive _._

Percival opens the door fully.

Grindelwald swears he can almost hear the sweet tempo of his heart, hammering in his chest.

His terror only heightens, alongside his hope for freedom. He is buck naked. He doesn’t care.

All that matters is his liberty.

Then it _doesn’t_ matter, because Grindelwald never granted him that right anyway. Percival steps forward, only to crash into the solid, invisible barrier Grindelwald cast behind the door.

He groans and stumbles back, bringing a hand to his nose. Despair distorts the lines of his face. It is quickly becoming Grindelwald’s favorite game to see him like this.

“‘O,” he says, a guttural sound. _No_. “Ah, ‘ah, aa --”

He tries to step forward again, only to encounter resistance. A sob tears its way up from his throat, and Grindelwald decides he’s  had enough.

He closes his hand around thin air, and Percival gasps loudly at the feeling of a vice-like grip clamping on the nape of his neck and pulling him backwards. His feet drag on the wooden planks, and he kicks with all the echoes of a might he once possessed. Grindelwald nods at the effort, and throws Graves face down onto the bed with his magic all the same.

Percival immediately turns around. Grindelwald holds him down against the mattress. The invisible hand curls around his throat, threatening to cut off his airway. Percival stills, his breath coming in short pants.

Grindelwald cancels his disillusionment charm. He stands next to the bed, arms crossed and staring down at his prisoner unnervingly. His mouth is turned down as though disappointed, and when his eyes meet Graves’, his prisoner shudders, unable to stop it.

He’s so afraid.

Grindelwald steps closer, and Graves flinches so hard it pulls another sound of pain from him. Grindelwald ignores it. He sits on the edge of the bed and places his hand on Graves’ side, stroking the skin as though he was a dog wanting to be petted. Percival trembles beneath him, and Grindelwald's movements still.

“You ought to be more grateful than that,” he sighs. “I sometimes forget how rude you Americans tend to be, but I do believe I have a right to a reward when I so gracefully raised you back from the dead.”

He sees the question in Graves’ eyes, and laughs.

“No, you did not die.” He smiles widely. “Do you wish you had?”

Percival’s eyes fill with tears. He doesn’t reply, merely bites his own lower lip so hard it has to be painful. Grindelwald’s hand travels up, up until it rests over Graves’ heart. He curls his fingers and digs his nails into the skin. Percival jerks under him, but he is helpless to move or protest.

If the man had a tongue, Grindelwald knows he would have already been cursed to Hell and back. He finds the silence, broken only by the most basic, instinctive, animalistic noises to be refreshing.

“I asked you a question,” he says, leaning down to caress Graves’ lips with his other hand. “But you can’t talk, can you?”

Percival glares at him, more tears spilling from his eyes. This time Grindelwald gives in and kisses them. Percival trashes under him, a yell caught in his throat.

“Hmm.” Grindelwald pulls back, licking his lips. “So, my dear Director. Do you wish you were dead?”

Graves turns his head to the side, and doesn’t reply. Grindelwald tsks, before letting him go and straightening up. He gets up from the bed and faces Percival, taking in the sight of him spread out like this, healed and soft, furious and disgusted, wrung out and terrified. He definitely likes the sight, even more so because he knows he’ll be able to use Percival soon again. There is no point in letting him occupy a bed, and Gellert’s time, when he feels so well as to stand up, walk and fight.

Grindelwald steeples his fingers under his chin, as though thinking, and the longer the silence stretches the more Percival starts to squirm and struggle. The hand tightens around his throat. His legs rise up instinctively, kicking out at nothing. His hands fly to his neck uselessly to try and protect himself.

Grindelwald laughs at the display. Nonchalantly, he puts his hands in his pockets, leaning against the bedpost as he informs Graves of his plans. “I think I’ll keep you just like this, you know.”

Percival stays silent.

“Look at you,” Grindelwald elaborates. “You’re right as rain! Sore, but unhurt. Didn’t I take good care of you?”

Graves shakes his head furiously. Once again, Gellert ignores him. “I went too far the last time, and for that, I apologize.” He puts his hand over his heart, as though genuinely sorry. And he is, but only because he couldn’t control himself. It almost cost him Percival's life. It would have put an hinder on all his plans. He suspects Percival knows it, but they both can pretend he is honest. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

Percival goes still, nostrils flaring. He opens his mouth, trying to talk and forgetting that he can’t. All that comes out is a wet gurgle, and he closes it abruptly, red blooming high on his cheeks, the heat of anger and humiliation.

“However,” and here Grindelwald makes his voice soft, almost apologetic, as if he was pleading Graves to _understand,_ “I need you to do this for me, you understand?”

Percival gestures _no_ with his head, so Grindelwald continues.

“I need to use you. I _need_ to hurt you. If I don’t, it will be one of your Aurors instead, Percival, or a no-maj. I’ve tried to avoid spilling useless blood. But - clearly what we had before doesn’t work. You almost died, and I lost sight of myself. So here's what I think: from now on, when I need to use you like this, I will make sure you are taken care of afterwards, before I leave. This way I won’t risk losing you, and I still get what I need. I’m sorry about the tongue.” And he clears his throat, shakes his head regretfully. “I should have been more careful. But it makes you good for me. You’re all quiet. I don’t regret it all that much, in the end.”

Percival stares.

Then he _thrashes_. He struggles, uselessly, his back arching off the bed, his hands scrabbling at this throat to fight against the hold keeping him down. Grindelwald counts his ribs, admires the milky pallor of his skin, the way it is stretched so thin he could name each of the man’s bones.

Percival tires quickly, his movements becoming sluggish. He can barely hold his arms up anymore. After a while he simply keeps them against his throat, staring wide eyed at the ceiling. He glances at Grindelwald, and shuts his eyes. The rise and fall of his chest only becomes quicker, and Grindelwald can almost hear the panic scuttling its way through Percival’s body. The man starts to choke, breath rattling, muscles seizing without his being able to stop it.

Grindelwald rolls his eyes and steps closer, knowing he is the source of Percival’s panic, and also knowing he doesn’t want to deal with his ensuing paralysis, helplessness, and the general care he would demand. “Deep breath, Graves. Crying won’t help.”

Percival cries. He rolls onto his side and curls up like a child, shaking his head as if that would make Grindelwald disappear. A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and he jerks, before scrambling as far back as the bed allows. Grindelwald merely raises an eyebrow. A whispered spell, and the bed starts to stretch, turning into an island of dark sheets and plush pillows. Percival is a stark, pale contrast against it. Percival can never reach the other side of the bed. He can never escape.

The weight around his throat has shifted, now feeling more like a heavy collar than a human hand threatening to cut off his airway. And Percival, no longer pinned down anymore, tries to run. On all fours, desperately, lost in a bed that it far too big for his lithe frame, he tries to escape the predator at his back.

Calmly, Grindelwald takes off his shoes, before climbing on the mattress as well.

The curse he has used is a mere illusion. Percival is but an arm’s length away from him, twisting and turning on himself, jumping and flinching away from _nothing_. His mind conjures up images Grindelwald can only guess. They heighten his horror, emphasize his helplessness. Grindelwald gets closer.

Graves lets out a heaving sob and curls up on himself once more. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, burying his face in the nook it creates, trying to block out his reality. He rocks back and forth on the bed. Grindelwald can hear him whimper.

Pausing, he changes tactics. He transforms his face into someone else’s, someone he only saw in pictures: Theseus Scamander, war hero. Perhaps if he looks that way, then Percival will listen to him. They used to be close, he knows as much from Percival’s memories.

Gently, he pries Graves’ hands away from his face, murmuring words of encouragement all the while. They sound fake even to his own ears, but Percival freezes entirely, which he considers an improvement.

“That’s it,” he says. “That’s it, Pup. You’re all right. It’s just me. Come on now. Open your eyes and look at me. You’re all right.”

Sobbing, hiccuping, Percival does. He looks a mess, his eyes bloodshot and haunted, his face a sickly gray. He looks in agony. He looks to be dying, and Grindelwald frowns - not understanding. He’d healed him, hadn’t he?

Percival must see something not right in his face, because he unfurls and _screams_. Grindelwald only has time to blink before he is kicked in the chest by a pair of slim but powerful legs, their strength fed by anger and dread. He falls on his back on the bed, and hears the quick hurrying of footsteps as Percival all but jumps from the mattress to run to the door. He is not caught in the throes of his illusion anymore. He still cannot escape, not with the barrier. Grindelwald blinks up at the ceiling, his face twisting into an ugly grimace.

He’d taken care of the man, and this is how he gets repaid? He offers a fair deal, and this is what he gets for his troubles?

He raises his hand in the air. Balls it into a fist. Squeezes, and draws a pattern in front of his eyes - back and forth, back and forth.

Back. And. _Forth._

Behind him, Percival falls with a cry, deep lacerations opening everywhere on his body - deep enough to cut through skin, through muscle, deep enough to graze _bones_.

His scream makes Grindelwald’s entire body vibrate. He closes his eyes and smiles, while Percival bleeds out on the floor. He doesn't stop wailing, and it feels good to hear him like this - relearning the consequences of disobedience. _This_ is exactly what Gellert craves, exactly what he needs to keep himself sane.

He knows precisely the moment Graves’ heart is going to give out. He doesn’t allow it. In quick movements he has risen from the bed, walked up to Graves and turned him on his back. The wounds are open, oozing blood. Percival’s eyes are glassy, unseeing. His body still trembles, repelling death desperately, cells and antibodies working feverishly to keep him alive. His heart burns inside his ribcage, overworked.

Grindelwald drags his wand above him, from the soles of his feet up to his split collarbone, and heals him.

Two blood replenishing potions are spelled into him. Grindelwald gives him ten minutes - in which he spells the blood off of the floor and returns the wooden planks to their pristine state - before murmuring, _“Enervate.”_

Percival wakes up. Eyelashes fluttering, sore and aching everywhere, but no longer hurt. Grindelwald is disillusioned.

He looks down at his body, littered in more scars than he can count. He sits up slowly, lips quavering. With shaking hands he reaches for his throat, no doubt feeling the presence of the invisible collar Grindelwald has kept there.

Invisible arms wrap around his torso from behind. There is a wand, digging into his temple, and a hand covering his mouth. A thumb forces his mouth open, and fingers dig into his palate.

He lets Grindelwald do it. His tears are silent, this time, and when Grindelwald is satisfied with the emptiness he feels inside the man’s mouth he retreats.

He rises up, and helps Percival up as well. The man can barely hold up his own weight, and Grindelwald ends up having to support him to the bed. Percival slows down at the sight of it, a whine rising in his throat. Grindelwald forcibly pulls him forward, and he finds the man’s eyes are closed when he lays him down once again. He needs to rest after what Grindelwald did to him, that much he knows.

He replenishes the glass of water and sets it down on the bedside table. Being in this bed seems to distress Percival, so Grindelwald changes the bedsheets colors to a stark white, hoping that will be enough for the time being to ward off any memories of the illusion he forced him to live through.

He is ready to leave, satisfied for the time being.

Graves is still trembling on the bed, but Grindelwald suspects that as soon as he is out the door, his exhaustion and hurt will catch up with him, and he’ll be helpless to do anything but let himself fall into a deep slumber. So he turns on his heels and starts walking away, feeling better now that he was able to let some of his emotions out on Graves.

It is akin to magic, the effect this man has on him. Somehow hurting him satisfies Grindelwald more deeply than hurting a muggle ever could, although God knows they deserve it. But Percival Graves… _Percival Graves_ , reduced to a sobbing, bruised, worthless mess of a man because of him… Oh, that is just joyous.

He is almost at the door when he hears a loud, heavy thump behind him. In disbelief, he wheels around. Percival has left the bed. He is a heap on the floor beside it, elbows supporting him, his face distorted in pain as he tries to breathe. He looks up at Grindelwald, and his eyes fill with renewed tears - but determinedly, he starts to crawl forward.

Grindelwald tilts his head, uncomprehending.

Percival isn’t trying to get up. He isn’t trying to use magic - not that he can, in his state it would probably kill him - he isn’t trying to run away. No. His advance is slow. He uses his elbows and heels to move forward, unable to hold himself upright. The sight is quite frankly pitiful to behold, yet Grindelwald stares captivated all the same. What does he want? Why does he look at Gellert with such a look of profound tenacity, despite everything that happened? Does he seek to bargain? How, when he cannot speak, when he cannot stand? When Grindelwald can already do whatever he wishes to him?

Time stretches as Percival approaches, until finally, he is close enough to Grindelwald that he could lick his boots.

He looks feverish, almost mad. He reaches out to grab onto the bottom of Grindelwald’s pants. A hand on each legs, he slowly uses Grindelwald as leverage to haul himself up on his knees. Grindelwald whispers a quick spell that makes him as heavy as a block of steel, in case Percival’s goal with this handling is to use his weight to tackle him down. But Percival does nothing of the sort.

No. Once he is on his knees, his hands simply reach up, higher and higher. He looks fit to throw up anytime. Grindelwald opens his mouth to ask _what in heaven’s name does he think he is doing,_ but before he can Graves’ hands fall on his crotch. Gellert’s eyes widen.

As though caught in a dream, he can only watch as Percival starts to fumble with his belt. He has to catch himself twice before it even comes loose. The two buttons on Grindelwald’s pants should be next. Instead of undoing them, Graves cups him through his pants - applying pressure, massaging him, _trying to make him hard_. He licks his lips as he looks up at Grindelwald under his eyelashes. His eyes are bloodshot red. His skin is hot to the touch when Grindelwald passes his hand through the man’s short hair, resting it on top of his head. Graves takes it as encouragement and - though more tears spill down his cheeks - he continue what he began.

Grindelwald’s pants come off, pooling down around his ankles. Graves reaches for the hem of his underwear, and he tugs it down to follow, until Grindelwald’s soft cock is in front of his face.

He lets out a sob, his bravado leaving him for a minute. Grindelwald is ready to stop him - this is after all useless with him - but Graves looks up determined once more. His broken nails dig into Grindelwald’s thighs as he sloppily drags his open mouth on the shaft. He takes the tip into his mouth, and starts sucking - waiting for Grindelwald to harden.

He doesn’t.

Percival tries. With no tongue he cannot play with a man’s cock the way he would have before, but he does his damnedest to make it good. Grindelwald can feel it. It is uncomfortable, but he lets him do it. He lets him come to the realization himself.

 _Beautiful, beautiful Percy_. So wretched as he is. Acting now purely on survival instincts, overriding his disgust and his bone-deep torment. Adding more to his trauma of his own volition, because it is all he knows how to do.

Percival plays with his balls. He caresses them, strokes his fingers over them. When it does nothing, he fondles them as he suckles on Grindelwald’s cock, and then he grabs them - thinking perhaps Gellert likes pain. Grindelwald makes a noise of protest, and Percival moans softly around him to apologize.

He works his hand on the shaft. Pulls back the foreskin to expose the head, lavishes it with attention.

It does nothing.

He tries harder. Grindelwald never had anyone suck his cock with quite so much enthusiasm.

It's truly a shame he has never cared.

 _Nothing, nothing,_ _nothing._

Burnt out, defeated, Graves slumps back on the floor.

He can’t even do this to save himself.

Silently, Grindelwald tucks himself back into his pants. He rolls up his sleeves to his elbows, and crouches down in front of Percival.

The man doesn’t even bat an eye. He is hollow. When Grindelwald moves he makes a lost, interrogative sound, pointing at his captor’s crotch with all the last hopes of the damned. Grindelwald shakes his head, and Percival sucks in a breath.

There is nothing he can do to stop his predicament. Nothing that will sway Grindelwald in his favor. He finally understands.

Grindelwald scoops him up gently. The fight has drained from Percival’s body. He lets himself be carried, let himself be placed upon the bed once more, lets Grindelwald tuck him in. Gellert takes a chair and sits down, legs crossed. Percival turns on his side to watch him, his hand covering his mouth and silent, fat tears rolling down his face.

Gellert sees his eyes drift to his crotch once more. He doesn’t understand. He’d done all he could, so why…?

“There is nothing you can do.”

The statement is simple, and rings true. Percival whimpers, shaking his head minutely, unwilling to surrender. Then his eyes widen. He points to his head, then to Grindelwald’s wand, strapped to his wrist holster.

“What do you want?”

Percival looks frustrated. He props himself up once more, although he sways. He blinks rapidly to reorient himself, taking a few deep breath. He points at his face once more, before making a writing gesture.

“You want me to read your thoughts?” Grindelwald haphazards a guess. Percival nods vigorously. “Hmm.”

He smiles, and sees fear in Graves’ eyes. The man shudders, his jaw clenching. But he keeps his mind open, his thoughts loud and clear when Grindelwald points a wand at his face. _“Legilimens.”_

_Please no more pain. I can’t. Please no more pain. I can’t. I’ll do anything, just please no more pain, I can’t bear it. Please. Please. I can’t. Please no more pain I’ll do anything use me do anything you want but please please don’t -- I can’t -_

Echoes of agony ripple through him, but Grindelwald protects himself from it all. He watches idly, trapped inside Graves’ mind as it starts spiraling on itself, repeating his only wish over and over until it is all Grindelwald hears.

_No more pain I’ll do anything that’s why I tried to please you, I want to please you, please anything but pain I’ll do anything please stop I can’t_

“But Percival,” Grindelwald says, genuinely disgruntled. “How will I live?”

_How can I?_

“This has never been about what you want.”

_Use me._

“Don’t you see? That’s what I want to do.”

_No more pain. Please make it stop._

“But I need it.”

_I’ll do anything, anything, anything, anything anything anything anything anything…_

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it till the end, congrats !!! it makes me very happy to know you enjoyed it. please let me know what you think of it, so i can write more ! :D 
> 
> you can also reach out to me on tumblr : @thegaypumpingthroughyourveins :)


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